


it's just rain

by imagymnasia



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, mostly just a surly flower, vague game spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flowey doesn't like mud. Or memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's just rain

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I thought of. Honestly I got kind of tired of it and it shows, but I felt compelled to finish it anyway. Have at, kids!

You've been following the kid for hours. Watching. Biding your time. Waiting for the moment when that hopeful, smiling facade inevitably starts to crack. Hoping that it makes a mistake, just so you can watch it crash and burn in the flames of its own misery. It makes you sick, how-- how _nice_ it is. To everyone. Everyone! Even the monsters who try to kill it! What sort of game is it playing, this child? Doesn't it know its efforts are fruitless?

_Stupid human._ Only idiots believe in happy endings. Its optimism disgusts you.

But the idea of what awaits it at the end-- the culmination of the path it has chosen, the impossible choice it will have to make, the realization that all it has done means nothing in the end-- that spurs you on.

It's because of this that you find yourself in soggy ground and tranquil darkness, making your way through the damp earth and grumbling to yourself about the mud. It makes movement easier, but something in the back of your mind recalls the unpleasant way it mats fur and squishes between toes and under claws.

You surface in time to see the child pulling an umbrella from a bucket. Farther along the path, water falls in torrents from some break in the ceiling. It’s not real rain, you know, but it’s as close as the underground comes to precipitation. Some people find that fascinating; some look on it with a more wistful eye. You just find it a nuisance, a reminder of what you once wanted but can never have.

But the child is acting strangely, so you pull your thoughts away from the rain and watch it with a curious eye. It’s not often that the child surprises you, but when it stops to study something you creep a bit closer. What is it looking at with that sad expression?

Now you remember where you are.

The statue has been there for a long while; even so, it looks older than it should. A break has opened above it, allowing water from the surface to seep through the cracks in the mountainside and find its way down to this very spot. It drip, drip, drips onto the stone figure, wearing parts of its stony surface smooth over time. You’re not surprised you didn’t notice before; you try to avoid this place as a general rule. It only makes you angry, now.

You’re ready to leave and wait for the child ahead, but it’s still standing there, studying that stone figure with grave intensity. You briefly consider scaring the stupid creature, just to frighten it into pressing on, but before you can decide that would take far too much effort it leans the umbrella against the wall, shielding the statue from the dripping water.

_Idiot_ , you think with a private sneer. It’s only a statue—

The sound of a music box begins to play. At least, you think it begins; perhaps the rain had kept you from hearing its faint tune. But a tune it is, and though it is quiet it seems strong in the silence. The only other noise is the gentle _pap pap pap_ of water on cloth, and the music box overtakes it with ease.

The child listens with a satisfied smile and you listen with it. Something about the melody tickles a memory, but it’s far out of your reach and tucked away in that dark corner of your mind where you dare not go. The only thing you can recall is emotion, and you haven’t felt those in a very, very long time. Sadness and nostalgia and the warm contentment that comes with a comforting embrace take over your senses; by the time you pull yourself from their grasp, you feel like you could cry.

But flowers can’t cry, and so you don’t.

When you look around next, the child is gone. Another umbrella is missing from the bucket. You give the statue and its music a final glare before slipping under the earth again. The sound is muffled underground, and soon you forget it entirely.

All this mud really is unpleasant.


End file.
